


Soothe

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 16:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11740497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A tired Maglor comes to Elrond’s side.





	Soothe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breakaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakaway/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for gotham-haze’s “some foster-father-son bonding for Elrond & Maglor for #12 [yarn]” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s sore after the long ride and flexes his shoulders as he wanders down the sprawling halls, nowhere near as long as they used to be. He vaguely misses the days when he had enough servants to go about and complete the patrols for him—but then, even when he did have servants not too long ago, life wasn’t easy. It hasn’t been for a long, long time. And his own choices brought him here. He knows he has no one to blame for this squalor but himself.

It’s hard to regret, though, even knowing all the harm he caused the world, when he strolls past the living room to find the hearth still ablaze. It illuminates the small figure perched on the sofa, diligently working thin needles to and fro. The twins he holds now—the children he never had—make these circumstances bearable.

The _guilt_ still consumes him. But Maglor swallows that down, and he walks into the open space, heedless of the ache that plagues his back. He never has enough time to spend with them. They grow taller every day. Elrond is still a little smaller, if only by a few centimeters, a little lighter, more lithe, not yet quite as muscled as his brother who trains every day. Elrond’s more _peaceful_ , though Maglor fears he’ll still have to fight in the end. He knits a long line across his lap, part of something greater that Maglor can’t yet see. Maglor hasn’t knit properly in _ages_. He wouldn’t have thought he could even remember how, except he was the one to demonstrate when Elrond asked, if only in a few short steps, reaching over Elrond’s shoulder to guide his little hands. Elrond picked it up swiftly, as he does all things. He’s a marvel of talent. He would’ve made his parents very proud.

As Maglor walks around the couch, coming to take the other side, he wonders if his father ever looked at him the way he looks at Elrond. He knows his father loved him dearly, but he didn’t, couldn’t truly _understand_ like he does now. He would do _anything_ for Elrond. And it pains him that he can’t give Elrond more than this: a shabby little fortress hidden away from the world, with nothing to do but knit like maids. 

Elrond looks at him with a gentle smile, heedless of all the woes behind their walls, and asks, “How was your ride, Maglor?”

“Well,” Maglor replies, “though uneventful.” It’s all he can say. He has no intention of reporting that it pains him every time, not to do the work of a servant but to _leave Elrond_ , leave Elros, leave his brother and skulk about the woods in worry. He diverts the conversation purposely, asking, “What are you making?”

“A sweater for Maedhros.” Elrond pauses to hold up what he has, though it’s yet only a scrap formed of burgundy and gold. “I would make you one too, but he often seems colder when he returns from patrols—he shivers. So I thought to do his first.” 

Maglor smiles, touched, and doesn’t speak the truth: that Maedhros shudders for other reasons, and no sweater can save him. But the thought would warm him. And Maglor is sure that he would treasure any gift of Elrond’s dearly. 

When Maglor says nothing, Elrond slowly lowers the sweater again, and then he notes, “But you look more tired tonight. I can make you something to eat, perhaps?”

“No,” Maglor answers, smiling wider in spite of himself. Elrond’s doting care is one of his sweetest features. Maglor thinks of asking where Elros is, but he thinks he knows the answer—out training with Maedhros, likely, and Maglor knows that when he approaches Maedhros, his elder brother will drag him off to sleep. He wants to spend some time with Elrond first, as he always does. 

He reaches forward on instinct, and Elrond doesn’t protest as Maglor gathers Elrond up in his arms. He pulls Elrond over to sit right beside him, nearly in his lap, though Elrond isn’t quite young enough for that anymore. Instead, he tosses his legs over Maglor’s and turns to lean his head on Maglor’s shoulder. His hands resume their work, tugging along more string from the ball resting on the floor, and he murmurs, “Thank you for having this yarn brought to me.”

“Thank you for using it so generously.” Maglor gathers a bit of the dark bangs falling past Elrond’s eyes to draw aside, so he can press a tender kiss to Elrond’s forehead and sigh, “You have a talent for it, as you do for all things. You will grow great, my...” and he pauses, having almost slipped into the words his father would’ve called him. He corrects himself too late, chastely finishing, “Elrond.”

Elrond must have noticed, but he says nothing of it. He only continues to both knit and warm Maglor’s side, until Maglor has nodded off of his own exhaustion, with his own little family guarding his dreams.


End file.
